I have on my work desk a small, circular red button. If I press this button, all the tennis clubs in the world will simultaneously combust in an explosion which will give the earth's axis a kick up the arse which it certainly needs.

Why don't I press the button? Well, it's not from compassion for humanity, or from any possible regret for the mass murder of little snots. It's just that membership of my local tennis club when I was 16 gave me access to the old upright piano in the club house. That was where, on rainy days, when the club house was empty and I was bunking off school or holiday work or whatever, I used to sit and work out my first boogie-woogie left hand. And where I used to snog Shirley Howarth on empty, rain-sodden afternoons.

So, every time I'm tempted to press the button and destroy every tennis club in creation, I pause and think that there might be some other young chap - eager for boogie and innocent snoggery - who wouldn't be the same without the opportunity. I didn't, and don't give a shit about the tennis, but I just can't bring myself to press the button.

I also have another button, by the way, which will destroy every caravan in the world but, for some reason, the f*ck*er's broken.